


Baby In A Box

by Sita_Z



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Child Abuse, Christmas, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Major Character Injury, Neglect, Snape-adopts-Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sita_Z/pseuds/Sita_Z
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year on Christmas, Harry wants to hear the story of how he arrived at Spinner’s End… in a box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A Christmas fic. Have a very happy holiday!

The golden potion was simmering heavily, soon to boil. Pieces of grinded holly berries swirled inside the bubbling liquid, tiny red flecks within a honey-colored cyclone. Combined with a vial of Evernice Elixir and a pinch of pixie dust, they would intensify the draught’s effect by a factor of 2.5, if his calculations were correct. They usually were, but as every Potions Master knew, the magic revealed itself in the brewing, not the theory.

 

Snape reached for his crystal stirrer (Size 5, Pink Opal), immersed it into the potion at an angle of exactly 70 degrees and began stirring. Four times clockwise, six times anti-clockwise, another three times clockwise. A cloud of scent escaped the cauldron, strong enough to make his nose twitch, but not unexpected or unwelcome. His potion had reached the amalgamation stage, when every ingredient released its magic powers and reacted with the agents around it. This usually resulted in some sort of discharge, be it smell, sound or even a supernatural manifestation. Snape felt the magic build within the potion and engulf his arm, tingling under his skin. The feeling was different for every draught; some Dark potions even demanded pain to reach their full potential. Not so this little concoction; a soft tickle was all there was to it.

 

When the sensation had subsided, he lifted the stirrer and set it down carefully in its holder. The potion would have to sit for two days now, cooking slowly on a low flame. As for the testing stage-

 

“Severus?”

 

Lowering the fire, Snape turned around. The person standing in the door of his laboratory was not unexpected (or unwelcome) either, although he had hoped to begin another batch of Drunkard’s Ease after finishing with his little experiment. The demand was high at this time of the year.

 

“Severus, I finished the stars but I dropped one of the Snitches and there was a lot of chocolate on it and it’s on the rug in front of the stove and it won’t come off. I trod in some of it but not much and it’s my old socks anyway.”

 

All this was said so quickly that Snape caught only half of the words, but then, the chocolate-covered six-year-old in front of him was explanation enough by himself.

 

“Didn’t I tell you to stay at the kitchen table?”

 

“Yes and I did but I needed more green sprinkles and they were on the counter.”

 

Snape didn’t ask why the boy hadn’t left the biscuits at the table; years of experience had taught him that logic only got him that far, especially with young Harry Potter. Behind the boy, a track of chocolatey footprints led down the cellar steps.

 

“Why didn’t you take off your socks before coming down here?”

 

The boy turned, looking surprised at the trail of chocolate. “Oh.”

 

“Yes, oh.” Snape sighed. “Take them off, and leave them here. I’ll get them later when I do the laundry. There’s a fresh pair in the basket by the stairs. Wait!” He caught the boy around the waist before he could dash off. “You’ll just get chocolate all over your feet again. _Tergeo_!”

 

The footprints vanished, and Snape let go of the boy. As he watched Harry sprint up the stairs, he marveled again at the boy’s relentless energy. They had spent the morning in Diagon Alley, and Harry had been outside for most of the afternoon, zooming around the garden on his broomstick, but he seemed more awake than ever. Snape, meanwhile, could have done with a nice nap in front of the fire.

 

He followed the boy up the stairs and into the kitchen. Small it was, yes, but the grime and grease of Snape’s childhood days were gone. It still surprised him at times, how much a thorough clean-up and general overhaul had changed No. 37, Spinner’s End. Back in the day, Tobias hadn’t allowed magic in his own four walls, Eileen had refused to clean the Muggle way, and of course Snape’s father would not stoop to doing “women’s work”. The filth and dust had gathered correspondingly, but after a long day at work (or the pub), neither Eileen nor Tobias cared much. Then, Snape had never imagined that the house could actually look and smell clean.

 

Clean, of course, did not exactly apply to the kitchen after Harry’s chocolate mishap. Snape didn’t have to be a master sleuth to read the story the dark hand- and footprints told. A rather gruesome crime had been committed here, and the victims were a kitchen rug, two dish towels and what looked like a gallon of chocolate.

 

“Can you spell it clean?” Harry asked, regarding the rug without much hope.

 

“Very unlikely.” Snape bent down to pick up the two unfortunate towels. “In fact, I shall not even try, as it would be a waste of magical energy to do so. As for the rest of this… war zone…”

 

He waved his wand – a very useful spell Molly Weasley had taught him – and most of the chocolate vanished. Including, unfortunately, that on Harry’s carefully decorated biscuits.

 

“My biscuits!” Harry stared, open-mouthed. “You spelled all the chocolate off!”

 

“And you murdered my kitchen rug.”

 

They stared at each other for a moment, before Snape decided that, being the adult, he should probably reconcile the situation.

 

“I did not intentionally remove the chocolate from your biscuits. It is in the nature of the spell to clean chocolate stains off any surfaces in the vicinity-”

 

Harry sniffled. “I made the cauldrons for you and it took for ever and ever to get the sprinkles on.”

 

Snape could see the truth of that statement; the sprinkles that covered the table and most of the kitchen floor attested to it. He cleared his throat. “I am sorry, Harry.”

 

It no longer felt so strange, apologizing to a little boy who hardly reached up to his navel. Certainly no one had ever apologized to young Severus, or even acknowledged any grievances he might have. It had taken a while for Snape to understand that he could not demand good manners from Harry if he wasn’t ready to offer the same thing.

 

“It’s okay, I guess.” Harry’s sniffles subsided.  “An’ I’m sorry too about the mess.”

 

That was another thing that had taken getting used to; Harry’s quickness to forgive. Snape carried grudges like others kept mementos, turning them over his mind and examining their every detail. He hadn’t even known there was another way until Harry came along.

 

“Well, let me have a look at those cauldrons.”

 

The baking had been done together before Snape went down to his lab and left the decorating to Harry. Cauldrons, stars, moons, Christmas trees, cats, Snitches and Hippogriffs covered the trays, all of the cutter forms handpicked by Harry in Diagon Alley.

 

“Look, I put on green sprinkles for Toothcleaning Tonic, and blue ones for Headache Draught, and red and yellow ones for that new potion you’ve been making.”

 

Snape nodded in appreciation; the boy had correctly remembered the colors. “Very good, Harry. Why don’t we heat another pot of chocolate and finish this together.”

 

Harry’s grin threatened to split his face. “Really? You’re gonna help and all?”

 

Snape raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t you trust my decorating abilities?”

 

A vigorous nod and a giggle. “I trust you.”

 

This boy was not going to be a Slytherin, Snape thought as he set the pot on the stove, but the thought didn’t rankle as much anymore. If Harry was happy in Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff or Merlin forbid Gryffindor, then Snape would not begrudge him his Sorting. But, he reminded himself quickly, it was a long time still before Harry left for Hogwarts.

 

Harry climbed onto the stool next to Snape and watched as the chocolate slowly dissolved in the pot. “Can I stir?”

 

Snape handed him the spoon. “Careful now. Don’t burn yourself.”

 

Harry nodded. “Ten times clockwise,” he said earnestly, his eyes on the spoon’s movements. “And five times anti-clockwise. That’s how you brew chocolate.”

 

“Is it?” Snape felt his lips twitch.

 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’m going to be a Potions Master when I grow up. Can I come see your new potion later?”

 

“You may, after we have cleaned up here.”

 

“Is it all done?”

 

“Not quite,” Snape said. “It needs to sit for two days before I can test it.”

 

“Can we test it ourselves?” the boy asked excitedly. Snape had tested various experimental potions on himself, sometimes with quite unusual results. “Can I help?”

 

“After I’ve made sure it is safe,” Snape said firmly. Harry had wanted to help before, and on one memorable occasion had dipped a finger into Featherweight Elixir and licked it off before Snape could stop him. The then four-year-old had spent six hours bobbing around on the ceiling until Snape finished the antidote.

 

“Does it taste good? What does it do?”

 

“Its taste should be acceptable,” Snape replied. “Something between toffee and cinnamon, if the flavor turns out as planned. And I told you before what it does.”

 

Harry nodded importantly. “It makes people be nice to each other on Christmas.”

 

A crude but succinct summary, Snape thought. His main customer, Pendergraft’s Potions in Diagon Alley, had asked him for a specially made draught to soothe frayed nerves and prevent family rows during the holiday season. After some research, Snape had come up the golden concoction that was currently bubbling away in his lab and which would hopefully meet the needs of all those haggard parents and long-suffering spouses.

 

“What are you going to call it?” Harry asked.

 

“I haven’t yet decided. What would you call it?”

 

Harry thought, his head tilted to one side while he continued to stir. “The Grinch Killer,” he said then. “‘cause it makes people be friendly and not mean like Mr.Grinch.”

 

Snape blinked. “That’s… very good, Harry. “ And it was, better than anything he could have come up with. Pendergraft would love it, that was for sure.

 

Harry beamed at him. “Is the chocolate all done?”

 

Snape nodded, his thoughts still on the newly christened potion. Harry had come out with names for potions before, and some very catchy ones, if Snape said so himself. Merlin forbid he start sounding like Narcissa, who would drone on and on about Draco’s many accomplishments, but the boy did have a way with words. Ravenclaw might suit him, after all.

 

“You can do the cauldrons, if you want!” Harry had bounded over to the table, pulling out a chair for Snape. The boy’s cheeks were glowing with excitement. “I’ll do the Snitches, I’ve loads of yellow sprinkles left!”

 

Snape sat down, surveying the trays of yet-to-be-decorated biscuits. He hadn’t remembered that they’d made quite so many. It seemed they would be living mainly off chocolate cauldrons and snitches for the next few weeks… though on second thought, perhaps not. Harry had pestered him into letting the youngest Weasley boy visit after the holidays, and Snape had no doubt that between them, those two would take care of any leftover sweets.

 

“Severus?”

 

Snape looked up from the cauldron he’d been covering in chocolate. “Yes?”

 

“It’s Christmas tomorrow, but not for presents yet, right?”

 

Snape nodded; they’d been over this before. “Yes, tomorrow is the 24th of December, also called Christmas Eve. It’s wizard and Muggle tradition to open any presents they may or may not find under the Christmas tree on the morning of the 25th.”

 

He kept a perfectly straight face, watching the boy from the corner of his eyes. Harry chewed on his lower lip as he dipped his brush back into the chocolate.

 

“Severus?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“D’you think there’ll be presents under our tree?”

 

Snape held up one of his cauldrons, pretending to inspect it carefully. “I suppose there may be some catnip drops for Hecate.”

 

“And – and some for me?”

 

“I was not aware you had a liking for catnip drops.”

 

A grin began to appear on the boy’s face. “You’re teasing!”

 

Snape smirked a little and turned back to his cauldrons. He was not born to be an artist, he decided, but the things didn’t have to be pretty to be devoured by Harry and the Weasley progeny. And Albus, of course. The man would be over for Christmas dinner and no doubt spoil Harry shamelessly; Snape had yet to experience a Christmas where the old man stuck to the two-present limit they’d agreed on.

 

“Severus?”

 

It was question time tonight, it seemed. No wonder; the Weasley boys had been hyperactive for days. From the many “calm activities” Molly had assigned Harry and her sons in their homeschooling lessons, Snape concluded that they must be pestering their parents around the clock.

 

“Severus?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“When I go to bed, can you tell me the story of how I came to live with you?”

 

The request was not exactly unexpected; Harry loved to hear the story, and particularly so at this time of the year. It had almost become a tradition, retelling it on Christmas.

 

“If you’re not too tired by then.”

 

Harry grinned. “I won’t be.”

 

###

 

Snape’s childhood room had been a bleak affair, its windows perpetually blackened with soot from the nearby steel factory. A simple Dust Repellent Charm could have kept them clean, but Snape supposed that Eileen hadn’t thought it worth the row that would inevitably follow. Everybody had sooty windows; if that witchy Snape woman suddenly kept hers sparkling clean, the neighbors would talk… at least according to Tobias.

 

The steel factory had been closed in the 70s, taking with it the incessant noise and the omnipresent soot. These days, the abandoned buildings were a magnet for adventurous children, who would throw stones through the windows or build dens in the old production halls. In fact, Harry had received one of his few groundings for sneaking off there with the neighborhood kids. Even so, Snape did not miss having a huge production plant close by; at least he no longer needed magic to keep the windows clean.

 

Including windows that one could actually see through, Snape’s boyhood room looked very different these days. A pale blue wallpaper covered the bare roughcast, the curtains did _not_ resemble discarded cleaning rags, there were toys on the shelves, pictures on the walls and a small desk where Harry spent many hours drawing and painting. There had been a time in Snape’s life when these changes might have embittered him – why would Potter’s brat deserve so much more than he had ever had? Potter, bloody Potter with his top-of-the-range broom and his new robes and his arrogant smile.

 

But James Potter was a fading memory these days, a pale reminder of a time and a place Snape had long since left behind. Now there was just Harry, and Harry deserved what every child should have; of course he did. His erstwhile idiot of a father had nothing to with it.

 

_You’ve come a long way, Severus_ , Albus had told him, a year or so ago. Snape had merely grumbled in reply, shrugging off the sentiment. He’d much rather spent his time pickling rats’ brains or even cleaning up one of Harry’s bathroom messes than join the old man in his maudlin soul-searching.

 

_Talking about messes…_

 

“Haven’t I told you to hang up your towel after using it?”

 

Harry stuck his head in the bathroom door. “I did!”

 

“Then why, pray tell, is it on the floor?”

 

“Oh.” Harry came in, picked up the wayward towel and hung it neatly on the rack. “It musta fallen off after I put it there.”

 

“That is what happens when you toss it instead of hanging it up properly.”

 

“I didn’t!”

 

Snape sighed. “Off with you to bed, and no more sweets after brushing your teeth! Don’t think I didn’t see you sneak those biscuits!”

 

Actually, his Slytherin side had applauded the boy’s stealth in slipping the sweets into his pocket, but as a – Merlin help him – parent, he couldn’t pretend not to have seen.

 

“What biscuits?” Harry grinned and escaped into his bedroom, flinging himself into bed as usual.

 

Why the infernal child had to make a racket wherever he went, Snape did _not_ know. Sighing once more, he picked up Harry’s sweater and jeans and followed the boy into his room. Harry had already snuggled under his covers, Hecate lying curled up on his feet.

 

“Severus?”

 

Snape draped the boy’s clothes over the desk chair. “Yes?”

 

“I’m not tired at all.”

 

“No?”

 

“Nu-uh. I’ll probably be up for hours and hours.”

 

“That’s unfortunate, seeing as there is not much for you to do but lie in bed and stare at the ceiling,” Snape drawled.

 

“But, you said you’d tell me the story if I’m not too tired…”

 

“I did, didn’t I.” Snape sat down in the armchair next to the boy’s bed. “Well, I suppose a promise should be kept.”

 

“Yay, story, story!” Harry bounced excitedly, causing Hecate to raise her head and give him a stern look.

 

“Settle down now.” Just how much sugar _had_ the boy consumed during his baking adventure? If it was as much as Snape suspected, Harry might indeed be up for ‘hours and hours’. Sighing at the thought, he leaned forward to pull the boy’s covers up to his chin. “And don’t wiggle around so much, or Hecate might decide to make a snack of your toes.”

 

Harry giggled. “Are you gonna tell me the story now?”

 

“Patience is a virtue, Harry.”

 

“That’s what Uncle Albus told you when you were waiting for those books.”

 

Snape raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

 

Harry nodded vigorously, clamping his mouth shut to show that he was ready to listen without interrupting.

 

“Well then,” Snape said. “You know how it all began…”

 

###

 

_December 24, 1981_

 

The room smelled of alcohol. That was nothing new; the little kitchen had seen a lot of whisky bottles opened in its time. As a boy, Snape had been so used to the smell that he noticed its absence, the first time he was invited to tea at Lily’s and sat in their clean kitchen, feeling awkward in his shabby, ill-matched clothes. _Their_ kitchen only smelled of home-cooked meals and freshly baked biscuits; any bottles of whisky that found their way into the Evans household were kept in the living room cabinet and only taken out on special occasions.

 

Well, every day had been a special occasion for Tobias Snape, to be celebrated by having a shot or four (and perhaps a shot at his wife, too, if he was in a particularly foul mood). No wonder the smell of it had lingered, but even then, it had never been as bad as it was now.

 

And that was not surprising, Snape thought, staring at the puddle in the corner. His father had been far too fond of his whisky to shatter an entire bottle of it against the wall.

 

Perhaps it was the memory of his father that had made him think whisky would help. Eileen and her son had always sighed in secret relief when Tobias passed out on the living room couch; in a way, the drink had been their friend and helper, too.

 

But it didn’t help him now; after emptying half a glass of the foul-tasting brew, Snape had surrendered to that truth. No matter how much he drank, the burrowing, poisoning pain that had been with him since the last day of October would not be driven out. It was far too strong, far too _alive_. And it seemed to have taken a liking to Snape, as it would not leave him for even a minute, even a single blasted second. It was so fond of him that it woke him up at night, whispering in the dark like a teasing lover: _Remember her face? Pale, with just a bit of blood in the corner of her mouth, where she must have bitten herself when it happened. Remember? Remember walking up those stairs after stepping over Potter’s still body, knowing what you were going to find and yet in no way prepared for it? Remember how it felt, seeing her lying there on the floor? Remember?_

 

He did; it seemed that he did nothing _but_ remember these days. Remember her smile, her hair, her _eyes_. Oh yes, the old man was right; he would not forget the shape and color of Lily Evans’ eyes, not ever. But in his mind, they would be forever fixed in a lifeless stare, the green dull and unseeing. _He_ had taken the life out of them. The voice whispering in the dark loved to mention this particular fact, caressing his ear as it repeated it again and again: _Remember listening at that door in the pub? Remember how pleased He was with you, how proud you were? What a momentous occasion, your first successful mission for the_ _Dark Circle_ _. Remember?_ Remember?

 

It was laughable, that whisky should be able to take care of it, take it all away. And yet he had tried, like so many desperate men and women had before him. Dumbledore had warned him about taking comfort in such remedies: _“Do not make that mistake, Severus. You’ll see that the greatest comfort lies in doing right; it is the only redeeming grace that is given to us in this life.”_

 

How he had hated the old man for these words. Just as he hated himself for not doing as he had decided initially, telling ‘this life’ to go to hell once and for all. The old man had guilted and manipulated him out of this decision, until Snape himself believed that he owed it to _her_ not to join her in oblivion… yet. _“Your way forward is clear.”_  Albus was a manipulative old bastard, but he was right about one thing: The boy had been the single most important thing in Lily’s life. She would want him protected by all means. So yes, he supposed his way forward _was_ clear. For as long as he was needed.

 

One thing he had not agreed to, though, and that was coming back to Hogwarts as a teacher. The old man had tried, oh yes; had offered him his own private potions lab, a generous starter’s salary and the special protection of the school’s ancient wards. It was more than any broke and orphaned twenty-one-year-old could hope for, and Snape had almost – almost – accepted. But then, imagining how it would be, going back to the place that he’d been so glad to leave behind four years ago, whose corridors would always be echoing with laughter at his expense, he had balked at the idea. Snape had no illusions about himself; he was not the most likable person and would never be, no matter what he did. But returning to his old school might just turn him into a wizard version of his father, addicted to his bitter anger like Tobias had been addicted to whisky. He did not want that for himself; he could not live that life. And Dumbledore had, after some arguing, given in. “I suppose teaching may not be your true calling,” he had conceded in his understating way. “I do have some very good connections with potions’ sellers in London. Your talent would be well applied there.”

 

And so it was, Snape supposed; brewing paid the bills, if nothing else. And whenever he saw parents dragging their eleven-year-olds through Diagon Alley, he thanked Merlin that it was not his job to guide the brats through their first clumsy attempts at draughtsmaking. He would hate every second of it, and they, no doubt, would come to hate him in turn. Better to spare everyone the misery.

 

So, Spinner’s End and potion making. And misery, yes, but of a different brand, one that would become easier to bear as the years went by… at least according to Dumbledore. He had refused to join the old man at the school for Christmas. Loneliness may be poison to one in his situation, but perhaps a little poison was just what he needed.

 

Snape waved his wand and the whisky puddle in the corner disappeared. The smell remained; it would likely linger for a day or two.

 

He glanced out the window. It had snowed early this year, providing the neighborhood Muggles with the ‘white Christmas’ they had been hoping for; Snape had heard them talking about it in the corner shop. Why anyone would wish for the traffic snarls and slippery pavements that came with the snow was beyond him, but he did not care one way or another. The Floo network was not subject to weather conditions, and Diagon Alley was kept snow-free by a Perpetual Warming Charm. It was the same charm he had applied to the pavement in front of his door, and he did not care one Knut about the neighbors. Let them gossip why the Snape lad never had to shovel any snow.

 

Outside, two teenagers were running down the street, chasing each other. The boy grabbed up handfuls of snow and began to pelt the girl with them. She shrieked and laughed, trying to hide behind a parked car. His second volley hit its target, taking off her hat. Reddish-brown hair spilled out from under it, and the girl shouted something to her friend, who stopped his attack at once and stepped onto the street to retrieve the hat. His coat was shabby and overlarge, his shoes too worn to be much use in the cold weather.

 

Abruptly, Snape turned away from the window. Pendergraft had ordered a fresh batch of Strengthening Solution and a gallon of Murtlap Essence – both were in great demand after Christmas, it seemed. He’d better get to it.

 

He spent the morning and most of the afternoon brewing, methodically measuring, slicing and grinding ingredients on his huge wooden work table. The cellar had turned out to be a handy place for a potions lab; after he had thoroughly cleaned it out, that was. The cold kept his ingredients fresh, and the small crenel windows kept nosy neighbors away. He had cast a charm on the ceiling to absorb the fumes, and set up shelves around the room to store his bottles and jars. Granted, it was a bit small, but wizard space always allowed for another bushel or two of storage room. And as Pendergraft had given him a discount on equipment, he had been able to afford Shrinkable cauldrons, all of which fit into a single drawer when shrunk. It was a good starter’s lab, and of all the rooms in No. 37, Spinner’s End, Snape preferred the cellar by far. The only smells down here came from bubbling cauldrons or freshly opened jars.

 

He was decanting the finished Strengthening Solution into crystal vials when a shrill noise from upstairs broke the silence. It repeated itself after a moment, lasting longer than the first time, and this time he realized what it was: someone was ringing the doorbell. Quite insistently too. It almost sounded as if the person, whoever they were, was actually leaning against the button.

 

If those kids had decided to play a game of knock down ginger… or Merlin help him, maybe it was carolers again. The last bunch had toddled off after a well-placed Confundus, but he could not hex too many of them, or the blasted Ministry would come down on him for Muggle-baiting. Muggle-baiting, ha! And what about wizard-baiting, knocking on his door and expecting him to listen to their caterwauling? Trudging up the stairs, Snape felt for the wand hidden in his sleeve. If it _was_ carolers, he might just send another Confundus through the keyhole and be done with it. After all, he had work to do.

 

He glanced through the peephole, expecting to see the cold-reddened faces and inane smiles of those singing neighborhood pests. But there was just one man standing in front of his door, clad in a red uniform jacket and clutching an enormous box. And he was definitely not smiling.

 

Snape opened the door. “Yes?”

 

The postman peered around the huge parcel in his arms. “Severin Snape?”

 

“Sever _us_. I’m not expecting any deliveries.”

 

“S’pose it’s a Christmas surprise then, and a bloody heavy one, too. Could I-?” He indicated the open door, and Snape reluctantly stepped aside to let him pass. The man staggered into the small kitchen and dropped the parcel onto the table, shaking his arms after he did so.

 

“Just need a signature here, mate.”

 

Snape took the proffered clipboard. The space for “return address” was empty, which was odd. He knew Muggle postal services were sticklers about that kind of thing. Signing the designated space, he handed the clipboard back to the postman. “I didn’t know you did anonymous deliveries.”

 

The man shrugged. “Seems the bleedin’ thing was left outside a post office in Surrey. No return address. I’m just doing my job.”

 

“Yes, yes.” Snape saw the man outside, ignoring his perfunctory “happy Christmas”. Snowflakes were drifting through the cold air, settling on fences and parked cars.

 

“Bet the M60 will be chaos,” the man muttered with a morose glance at the sky. Snape ignored this as well, waiting until the man had climbed into his red van and begun to navigate his way down the darkening street. Then he cast a quick _Homenum Revelio_. Nothing. If the delivery had come from _them_ , one of them would be sticking around… at least that was what he assumed. The Dark Circle preferred to leave nothing to chance.

 

So, not an unpleasant Christmas surprise for the newly discovered traitor. Dumbledore was ever so confident that none of the former Circle suspected a thing, but Snape knew better than to let down his guard.

 

He went back inside, closing the door and casting a Monitoring Charm for good measure. The parcel was sitting on the table where the postman had dropped it, looking for all in the world like a small coffin. It had the rough size of one anyway; as long as Snape’s arm, and about fifteen inches wide. Someone had secured it with a lot of Sellotape, as if to make perfectly sure it wouldn’t split open by accident. His address, written in neat, spiky letters, was printed on top. But it was something on the parcel’s side that caught Snape’s attention, and he took a closer look. A row of holes had been punched into the cardboard.

 

This was… not good. Snape could think of several reasons to punch holes into a parcel, and none of them were particularly reassuring. Perhaps the best idea would be to Vanish the damn thing on the spot.

 

Gripping his wand, he stepped closer to the table. “ _Viventem revelio_!”

 

A red glow engulfed the parcel, proving that there was indeed a live being inside it. Or at least, a being that had been alive in the not-so-distant past.

 

He must be a fool to do this, but he could not help being curious. If this turned out to be Pendergraft’s brainwave and he found a supply of freshly killed toads in there, he would let the old fool know just what he thought of his delivery methods. A Howler or two should do.

 

Steeling himself, Snape cast a Slicing Charm, cutting neatly through the Sellotape on top of the parcel. Wand at the ready, he reached out to lift one cardboard lid.

 

And stared. And sat down on his kitchen chair. And stared some more.

 

Inside the parcel was a baby, a human baby, wrapped up in a blue fleece blanket. And it was quite obviously dead.

 

###

 

“That was me, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yes, but I didn’t know that at the time.”

 

“And I wasn’t dead!”

 

“No, you weren’t.” _Not quite_ , Snape amended silently. Parts of this story were not for Harry to hear… at least, not yet.


	2. Chapter 2

His first thought was that it had come from the Dark Circle, after all. This was just their style, sending a murdered Muggle baby to the traitor. The message was clear: See, Severus, we have no compunctions about killing even a baby, and that Muggle brat passed away peacefully compared to what’s awaiting _you_.

 

But they wouldn’t use the Muggle postal service, would they? They could simply leave the baby on his doorstep, or send it as an owl package. Still… who on Earth, if not them, could be responsible for this?

 

Snape stood up, refusing to acknowledge the weakness in his knees. He was going to get to the bottom of this, and for that he’d have to remove the baby from the box. He couldn’t leave it in there anyway; if nothing else, he’d find a way of returning the little corpse to its parents. Maybe taking it to the Muggle police station might be a good idea; just leave it on the doorstep and disappear.

 

Some crumpled up newspapers had been stuffed around the baby – presumably to keep it from sliding around in the box, as if it were a damned Victorian vase. Snape removed them carefully, trying not to jostle the child. It was stupid; the baby no longer felt anything, of course. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to treat it like a thing; like the person who had sent it must have done. He strongly suspected that the baby had been alive by the time the parcel had been sealed, and he could only imagine the little being’s suffering and slow, torturous death. Why had the idiot Muggles not noticed something was wrong? Certainly the baby must have cried at some point. Did Muggle post officials routinely deliver packages that wailed?

 

One hand under the baby’s head and another under its back, Snape lifted the little bundle out of the box. It felt strange in his arms, fragile and at the same time quite solid; a real human being, made of flesh and blood. This whole situation was just so bloody _absurd_.

 

The baby was not an infant anymore; it had a shock of dark, messy hair and the round cheeks of a young toddler. Snape guessed that it was about one year old.

 

He laid it down gently on the table, and began to unwrap the fleece blanket. He wasn’t sure why he did it; surely nothing would come of examining the tiny body. The cause of its death was quite clear; it had either suffocated, frozen or simply died from the shock of being stuffed into a box. Snape grimaced at the thought. His initial impression of a small coffin had been more accurate than he liked to think.

 

Underneath the fleece blanket, the baby wore a shabby, overlarge t-shirt, a nappy and nothing else. Its arms and legs were not as plump as they might have been; Snape surmised that they were too thin for its age. A sour smell reached his nostrils, and he saw that the nappy’s leg holes had a brownish tint to them. Poor thing had died lying in its own feces. Whoever had done this deserved a round of the Cruciatus, and to hell with the comfort that came from doing right. Snape had a feeling that even the old man might agree.

 

He couldn’t leave it like this, he decided. He fancied himself a rational man, seldom given to flights of sentiment, but he could not leave a dead baby lying in its own shit. If nothing else, the parents would be spared _that_ particular detail when they came to pick up the little body at the morgue. Always assuming it hadn’t been them who had sent the parcel.

 

Snape began to undo the nappy’s fastenings, steeling himself for the smell as he folded down the front part. It stank badly – Merlin, yes – but what he found underneath the nappy distracted him from the evil smell. The baby’s thighs, bottom and little penis were caked in a layer of yellowish brown, clearly the result of more than one bowel movement. Even a completely inexperienced man like Snape could see that this little boy hadn’t been changed in a long time. The skin under the filth was red and inflamed, sporting sores and open ulcers. The child must have been in terrible pain.

 

Cruciatus, Snape thought as he pulled the horrible nappy away from the boy, might actually be too quick, too clean. Perhaps a dose of Voldemort’s favorite Intestine Twisting Curse, instead…

 

He incinerated the nappy on the spot and cast a Cleaning Charm on the table and the boy’s t-shirt. It did not remove the stench completely, but made it bearable… to a Potions Master, at least. A person not used to horrid smells might still want to retch.

 

Snape went over to the sink and filled a bowl with warm water, which he carried back to the table. Dipping a soft rag into the water, he began to clean the boy, gently and thoroughly. The baby’s skin did not feel cold, so he could not have been dead for long. In fact…

 

_“Achoo!”_

 

His heart racing like mad, Snape dropped the rag and slipped a hand under the baby’s t-shirt. And there it was. The faint beating of a heart that had not quite given up.

 

The baby had not woken up from his sneeze; his eyes were still closed, his arms and legs lying limply at his sides. Was he unconscious, or… Snape noticed a faint blue tint to the boy’s lips, which he’d ascribed to the cold before. But maybe there was more to it.

 

“Accio test strip!”

 

Snape caught what looked like a small strip of parchment out of the air and carefully pushed it in between the boy’s slack lips. It turned green almost instantly. Someone, no doubt the person who had mailed the parcel, had given the child a strong sleeping drug.

 

Snape was no Healer, but he knew that such Muggle poisons could be fatal to a weakened immune system. The child’s breathing could stop, or his magic might reject the unknown substance and throw the boy’s nervous system into shock. For this was a magical child; Snape had known as soon as the test strip changed color. The spell did not work for Muggles.

 

He held a palm in front of the boy’s mouth. At least he seemed to be breathing normally, although his heartbeat was slightly erratic. There were a number of potions Snape could have spelled into an adult patient, none of which he dared give to a child this young. And the baby looked as if his life were hanging on a silken thread, ready to let go at any moment. What if he died right here, on Snape’s kitchen table?

 

“What am I going to do with you?” The question came out as a whisper. Unaware of what he was doing, Snape reached out and brushed the boy’s unruly dark hair aside. There was a plaster stuck to the baby’s forehead, looking as if it had been there for ages. No doubt the boy’s erstwhile ‘caretakers’ had simply forgotten about it.

 

Leaving the plaster for now, Snape resumed his task of cleaning the boy. The amount of dirt and grime on the baby’s body was unbelievable. By the time the little bottom was finally free of filth, Snape had gone through several rags and four bowls of water. Not that the result looked much better; with the layer of dirt gone, the weeping ulcers and sores could be seen in all their glory, infected as they were. It was probably a mercy that the boy was so deeply asleep; if he were awake, he would be screaming in pain.

 

“Accio Essence of Dittany, Murtlap and Wiggenweld Potion!”

 

The vials he had summoned were set out on the table, and Snape began the slow process of treating the boy’s injuries, using a cotton swab to apply small amounts of potion to each painful crack and sore. Wiggenweld Potion sterilized and numbed the infected wounds; Dittany closed the worst of the sores and Murtlap soothed the irritated skin. It was the best he could do for the boy; only a Healer could decide if more invasive measures were needed.

 

“This should feel better, little one,” Snape muttered. “You’re a fighter. It takes more than a ride in a cardboard box to finish you off, doesn’t it?”

 

The boy slept on, but Snape imagined that his breathing had evened slightly. Even in the depths of slumber, he may have felt that the constant, chafing pain on his bottom had finally eased a little.

 

Snape transfigured a paper towel into a nappy (which took several attempts, as he had no clear idea of what a nappy looked like exactly). The result did not look quite convincing, but he supposed it would do for the time being. The grubby t-shirt, however, had to go. After a moment’s deliberation, Snape transfigured it into a soft, loose-fitting overall, the kind he’d seen on young toddlers in Diagon Alley.

 

“Now you look like a proper wizard, child.”

 

###

 

“Were you scared?”

 

Snape did not hesitate. “Yes, I was. Very much so.”

 

“Because you thought I might die?”

 

“Yes. And because I didn’t know who had sent you, and why.”

 

“Tell me about the letter.”

 

The letter, yes. He had almost missed it, hidden as it had been under the crumpled newspapers…

 

###

 

The sleeping child nestled against his chest, Snape stared down at the envelope. He hadn’t noticed it before, lying at the very bottom of the cardboard box. So, not completely anonymous after all. They had enclosed a letter. If they were stark raving mad (as Snape was beginning to suspect they were), all he might find in there was a store-bought Christmas card. If not… well, if not, he might be about to learn why anyone on Merlin’s green Earth would mail a baby.

 

He took both letter and baby into his living room, settling on the couch so that the sleeping boy came to lie on his chest. The little body felt reassuringly warm. Magic had saved this child, kept him alive when a Muggle baby would surely have died.

 

“Well, let’s see what they have to say, shall we?” Snape ripped open the envelope. The handwriting was the same as on the parcel, stilted and somehow fussy. After reading the first few lines, though, Snape forgot about that; he even forgot about the baby on his chest for a moment. Whatever he had expected, this was not it.

 

_Snape,_

_I don’t know if this address is still current, but you’re the only you-know-what I could think of. That man, Dumbledore, left no return address with his letter (on purpose, no doubt). There is no normal way of contacting any of you, so this is the best I could do. Hope this finds you reasonably well (and sober)._

_You may or may not know that Dumbledore left my sister’s boy with me and my family; dropped him off on our doorstep, in fact, a day after she died. He explained in a letter that there was some kind of freakish madman after him, and the only way of ‘keeping him safe’ was having him stay with us. We were not given a choice in the matter; he never asked us if we were willing to endanger our lives – and that of our son! – by taking in an orphan boy I’d never even seen before. I’m sure I know why; after all, we are just ‘Mugles’ (isn’t that what you used to call me, all those times you sat at our table, eating our food?)._

_Anyway, Snape, you can tell Dumbledore that it isn’t going to work. I won’t pretend to understand any of the ridiculousness about ‘blood wards’, but I know one thing – that boy will never have a home with us. My husband won’t stand for it, and frankly, neither will I. We never asked to be part of your world, and that boy is going to be just as unnatural as his parents. I wouldn’t know how to raise him, and I’m certainly not going to stand by and watch as my _ _Dudley_ _suffers from having a freak in the family. So tell Dumbledore thanks, but no thanks. You lot got them in trouble – you lot pick up the pieces. We, my husband and I, are certainly not going to do it._

_As for sending any of those ridiculous yelling letters, he can save himself the trouble, as we’re not going to be in the country for much longer. My husband has accepted a job offer abroad, and we’ll be leaving soon. If you try to return the boy to us, we’ll abandon him – you’ve been warned. We’re not going to be blackmailed into this._

_I’m enclosing a blanket and some clothing; it’s all that was left with us._

_Petunia_

 

_PS: I put a few Temazepam in his bottle to keep him quiet. He should sleep it off in time._

 

Snape stared at the sheet until the letters began to blur before his eyes. Then he crumpled it up and hurled it across the room, bringing his fist down hard on the couch’s backrest.

 

“You miserable _bitch_!”

 

The baby didn’t even flinch, still deep in his drug-induced slumber. Snape stared at the dark head tucked under his chin. This… half-dead little thing was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Stuffed into a cardboard box and mailed off like a stale fruitcake. Petunia must have lost her mind… what little she possessed, anyway.

 

He sat up on couch, shifting the baby in his arms so that he could look at the tiny face. Yes, the messy dark hair was his father’s, but something about the curve of the boy’s lips reminded Snape of another face, a woman’s face he knew so very well. And that plaster… the scar must be hidden under it, the famous scar Voldemort’s curse had left on the boy’s forehead. The Prophet had speculated what it looked like, as they could not get their hands on a picture.

 

Snape began to ease up a corner of the plaster, only to find it stuck. If he ripped it off he might injure the boy; better to use warm water and coax it off gently. But that could wait. First, he had a call to make.

 

###

 

“You Flooed Uncle Albus.”

 

Snape nodded. “He needed to know that you were no longer at your aunt’s house.”

 

###

 

“This is… unfortunate, Severus.” Dumbledore’s image in the flames looked worried, more so than Snape had ever seen him. “May I step through?”

 

Snape nodded silently, moving away from the fireplace to make room for the Headmaster. The baby in his arms did not stir. Harry was still fast asleep; if not for the warmth of the small body, Snape could have been carrying a bundle of rags.

 

Dumbledore stepped out of the fireplace, vanishing the soot on his robes with a flick of his wand.

 

Snape cleared his throat. “The chimney sweep hasn’t been round in a while…”

 

Dumbledore waved his explanation away. “No matter, my boy. How is Harry?”

 

“Sleeping,” Snape said truthfully. “Petunia drugged him. Some kind of Muggle pills, it appears…”

 

“Dangerous?”

 

“I’m not sure.” Snape wished he could reassure the man, but Dumbledore would know if he wasn’t honest. “He seems stable, but I haven’t much experience with Muggle substances.”

 

“May I see the letter?”

 

Snape accio’d the crumpled sheet of paper and handed it to Dumbledore. The man scanned it quickly, his face giving nothing away. That, of course, meant little; Dumbledore could hide his anger behind a blank mask as well as any Slytherin.

 

Finally, he lowered the letter. “Poor Petunia.”

 

Snape blinked. “Pardon me?”

 

Dumbledore sighed. “She seems to have felt that I valued her family’s safety less because she is a Muggle. It was always a sore spot with her, of course…”

 

“A sore spot?” Snape had raised his voice, and made an effort to continue more calmly. “She could have killed the boy!”

 

“True.” Dumbledore seemed more sad than angry, which annoyed Snape. He had hoped for the old man to share his feelings for once, rather than do the forgiving-and-understanding routine. His next question came out more snappishly than intended.

 

“So, what now? We just forget about it?”

 

“Of course not.” Dumbledore looked at him in that way he had, as if he were gazing right into his soul. Snape forced himself not to avert his eyes. “It seems as if we have to come up with another plan where Harry is concerned.”

 

“No Muggles this time,” Snape said forcefully, wondering when he’d come to feel so strongly on the matter. Then again, he _had_ promised to protect the boy.

 

“Not all Muggles are unfit guardians, my boy…”

 

“Perhaps it’s just the ones I know, then,” Snape snapped, then wished he hadn’t when he saw the disappointed look on the old face. “Anyway… why can’t a wizarding family take him? I’m sure many would be more than happy to adopt the Boy-Who-Lived.”

 

“But that’s it,” Dumbledore said. “They would adopt the Boy-Who-Lived, not a little boy who simply happens to need a family.”

 

“Well, he certainly doesn’t need a family who stuffs him in a box and leaves him at the post office.”

 

“No, he doesn’t.” Again that look, the one that never failed to unsettle Snape. What did the old man see when looking in his eyes? “He needs someone who will protect him.”

 

“Well… do you have somebody in mind?”

 

Finally, Dumbledore looked away, a strange glint in his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do. But in the meantime, I shall ask you to keep an eye on him. The drug may have possible side-effects, and I’d feel better knowing that he is in professional hands.”

 

“I… have never cared for a baby…”

 

“The lot of every new parent, or so I’ve been told.” Dumbledore must have noticed the expression on Snape’s face, for he added, “It’s only temporary, Severus. Just until I’ve made sure that the person I have in mind can take him.”

 

Snape glanced down at the sleeping boy. “What about the wards? Has Lily any other relatives?”

 

Dumbledore shook his head. “Petunia is the only one still living. And she is right, of course, the blood protection will not work if it isn’t willingly given. As for Harry’s immediate safety, for the moment we shall have to do with the Fidelius Charm.”

 

“What do you mean, for the moment?”

 

Dumbledore smiled. “Blood protection works in all manners of ways, Severus. There may come a day when someone is willing to share their blood with the boy, take him as their own. Then we may set up new blood wards. For now, the Fidelius will do fine.”

 

Snape narrowed his eyes at him. “Blood adoption? Who do you have in mind, Dumbledore?”

 

Again that strange look, and a smile, though what the old man would find so amusing, Snape did not know. “Suffice it to say, Severus, that it is someone I’d trust with my own life.”

 

###

 

“Uncle Albus was your Secret Keeper, wasn’t he?”

 

Snape nodded. They’d performed the charm the very next day, with McGonagall as their witness. They had told no one else… at least, not in those early days.

 

“Who was Uncle Albus going to ask about the blood adoption?” Harry wanted to know. “I thought he wanted me to stay with you.”

 

Snape sighed. “Let me tell you something about your Uncle Albus, Harry. Never – never – assume that he does not have an agenda in the back of his mind, not even when he asks you to pass him the salt at the dinner table.”

 

“What’s an agenda?”

 

“A secret plan.”

 

“Oh.” Harry thought about this for a moment. “Did his secret plan work, then?”

 

Snape almost smiled at this. “Eventually, yes.”

 

###

 

Harry slept for eighteen hours straight, snug and safe in a blanket enhanced with a Perpetual Warming Charm. Snape had set up a transfigured crib in his bedroom, the better to keep an eye on the child; during the day, he carried the boy around in a sling, like Poppy Pomfrey had suggested. She had come over to have a look at Harry and proclaimed him ‘recovering, but far too thin’.

 

The constant presence of another human being was new to Snape, even if said human being did nothing but sleep. He found himself talking to the boy, reading him news from the Prophet and complaining about Pendergraft who had ordered Sunshine Elixir in late December. He applied healing potions to Harry’s sore bottom several times a day, and spelled Nutrient Draughts into his stomach, amazed by the change those few hours had wrought in the boy. Harry’s skin was no longer pale and clammy; there was a faint rosy tint in his cheeks and his long dark lashes made him look like an angel - according to Madam Pomfrey, anyway. Snape thought he looked like a particularly scraggy kitten someone had left out in the cold... with a lightning bolt on its forehead. The famous scar was indeed shaped like a runic “s”, which, no doubt, had prompted Petunia to cover it with a plaster. Anything so obviously magical had to be hidden away from the “normal” world.

 

On Christmas morning, Snape sat at the kitchen table nursing his usual cup of coffee. Spending this time of the year alone was supposed to be a melancholy occasion – St. Mungo’s reported twice as many suicide attempts during the Christmas season. But melancholy was not how he felt. There was a certain kind of peace to just sitting here, the sleeping child on his lap, knowing that later they’d go downstairs and brew up a batch of Stomach Soothing Draught (always a moneymaker after Christmas).

 

“At least you don’t prattle on and on like your blessed father,” he remarked to the boy, his hand on the baby’s back as he scanned the latest _Practical Potioneer_. “Study hours in the Great Hall used to be hell with him and that yapping mongrel chattering away like magpies.”

 

“Da.”

 

Snape almost knocked over his cup. He looked down, and found his gaze met by a pair of bright-green eyes.

 

“Da ba,” the boy said quietly. “Widelibubwablahbla.”

 

“Yes, indeed...”

 

“Hawwy.”

 

Snape blinked. “Yes, that’s you. I’m glad you know your name.”

 

“Hawwy go leep.”

 

“You were asleep,” Snape said, wondering if the child understood any of this… how did you talk to an eighteen-months-old? _Did_ you talk to them? “But you’re awake now.”

 

_And you sound like an idiot, Snape, stating the obvious to a baby._

 

“Hawwy sit?”

 

Snape thought about this for a while, then hazarded a guess: “You want to stay on my lap?”

 

“Awabwada.”

 

“Okay.”

 

The boy looked around the kitchen, his face scrunching up as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings, and for a moment Snape thought he might start crying. But the baby just looked up at him again, one small hand closing on his black robes.

 

“Bublublu.”

 

“No,” Snape shook his head. “Severus. I’m Severus.”

 

“Hawwy.”

 

“Severus.”

 

“Evvu.”

 

Snape nodded. “Close enough. Well, Harry… shall we go downstairs and brew some Stomach Soothing Draught for all those insufferable dunderheads out there?”

 

“Evvu.”

 

He glanced down at the child, and found that it didn’t hurt as much as it might have, looking into those catlike eyes. Unlike those he remembered, Harry’s eyes were very much alive, and they seemed to _see_ him in a way few people had before.

 

_Listen to you, growing maudlin like the old man._

 

Snape shook off the thought and stood, the child on his arm. But he didn’t go to the cellar stairs right away. He went over to the window and pulled the curtain aside, revealing a bright blue sky and a street covered in sparkling snow. Blanketed in white, Spinner’s End didn’t look as rundown as usual; in fact, it looked almost nice.

 

“See?” Snape said, hoisting the baby up for a better view. “It’s Christmas today.”

 

###

 

“And then I stayed with you.”

 

Snape reached out to brush an errant lock from Harry’s forehead. “You did.”

 

“And then you blood-adopted me.”

 

“I did.”

 

Harry looked thoughtful. “What if you hadn’t been at home when the postman came?”

 

“I suppose they would have left the parcel on my front step,” Snape said. _In the freezing cold_ , he didn’t add. Bloody Petunia. That score wasn’t settled yet, and true to his nature, Snape had held on to the grudge; if anything, his anger had grown as the years passed. If they ever happened to meet again… well, Albus had better look the other way.

 

“What if you hadn’t liked me?”

 

Snape raised an eyebrow. “You mean, what if you had turned out to be a little monster who dripped chocolate all over my kitchen and stole biscuits?”

 

Harry giggled. “I didn’t mean to.”

 

“I’m sure the biscuits didn’t climb into your pocket by themselves.”

 

“No, the chocolate. I meant to nick those biscuits. But the chocolate was an ac- accident.”

 

“Like the accident you and Mr. Weasley had in the bathroom last week?”

 

Harry nodded, the sarcasm going straight over his six-year-old head. “Yeah.”

 

“Well,” said Snape, “I can’t very well send you back now, can I?”

 

No doubt Poppy Pomfrey and Molly Weasley would have frowned at this little comment, but Harry just grinned. “I wouldn’t fit into the box, anyway.”

 

“More’s the pity.” Snape tucked the sheets around the boy, making sure his feet were well covered. “Time to sleep now, Harry. Lupin is coming over tomorrow, and I’m sure you want to be well rested for all those games of Exploding Snap you’ll pester him into playing.”

 

“Uncle Moony?” Harry cried, and Snape could have kicked himself for relaying the exciting news just as the boy was settling down to sleep.

 

“Only if you go to sleep now,” he added hastily and untruthfully (if only the wolf could be kept away by something as simple as Harry not sleeping).

 

“Okay.” Harry smiled. “Night, Severus. See you on Christmas!”

 

Snape stood, looking down at the boy all wrapped up in his covers. “Goodnight, Harry.”

 

He quietly left the room, picking up some stray socks on the way. Lupin had insisted on coming over, as he did every Christmas, Easter, Harry’s birthday and whenever he could manage in between. Well, Snape mused as he dropped the socks into the laundry basket, it could be worse. When he wasn’t transforming into a bloodthirsty beast, Lupin could be tolerable company… not that Snape would ever tell him so.

 

He looked out the window to the back garden, just in time to see a single snowflake drifting down and settling on the frozen lawn. Another soon followed, and another, dancing here and there in the night wind. Harry would be delighted; he loved to play in the snow. _And if it’s Lupin who has to pull him around on that sledge and not me, even better_. Then again, Harry would probably insist that they both join him… and Merlin forbid, build a snowman. Snape sighed at the thought. In his opinion, snow was best admired through a window.

 

As were children, of course, and still he had one living in his house, baking chocolate biscuits, flooding his bathroom and asking for bedtime stories. Albus had fooled him well and good, those five years ago, and he had fallen for it like the greenest Hufflepuff first-year.

 

_“Well, it wouldn’t be good manners to return Christmas presents, I suppose,”_ the old man had said when Snape had curtly informed him that Harry would be staying at Spinner’s End, and even Snape’s fiercest scowl hadn’t wiped the smile off that wrinkled face. Sentimental old fool.

 

He’d be insufferable, should he ever find out about the box stowed away in Snape’s office, the box that contained an old blue fleece blanket. The box that Snape took out every Christmas Eve… just because. Not that he cried over the battered old thing, or any such sentimental rubbish. He just wanted to have a look at it. And remember how a baby had arrived in it, a baby that had filled an empty house and an empty soul with new life.

 

Just once a year. Because it was Christmas.

 

 

**The End**


End file.
